


But there are no colors to capture you

by flyingsolo_flyingfree



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Sam Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingsolo_flyingfree/pseuds/flyingsolo_flyingfree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas falls in order to save the world from the Darkness. He gets sick, and they decide he needs a hobby, something to do while his body is on the mend. </p>
<p>He gets a guinea pig, and he takes up painting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But there are no colors to capture you

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4716104) by whelvenwings, whose writing is incredible and always sticks with me for days. She got me thinking about fallen Cas coping by painting. 
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr!](selfless-sam.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also, can we please just give all of the guinea pigs to Cas? Please?
> 
> Update: [This has now been translated into Russian](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7317430) by the kind and wonderful [bfcure](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bfcure/pseuds/bfcure)

Cas gives up his grace to save the world from the Darkness. It’s a near thing, the entire universe in the hands of two men and an angel. Somehow, they pull it off, just like they always do.

With his grace gone, Cas falls ill. He’s bedridden for weeks, sleeping twenty hours a day, and Sam and Dean are worried beyond belief. They don’t know how to care for fallen angels. They don’t know what can make Cas better because they don’t know what’s wrong. It doesn’t seem life-threatening, but it’s been too long, and it’s certainly not a cold or the flu. Cas’ running explanation is that it’s the second time is grace was taken from him and his vessel—no, he corrects himself with a shake of his head, his _body_ —is having a harder time making the transition. 

There are nights when Cas’ fever runs high, too high for a human or an angel, and Dean goes in and sits with him. He drags cold washcloths across Cas’ forehead, changes them out as frequently as he needs to. He mumbles nonsense, things like _it’s gonna be okay_ and _stay with me_ and _Cas, buddy, don’t leave me._

_Please don’t leave me._

Sam came in, once, with a fresh washcloth, after Dean had dozed off in an old chair next to Cas’ bed. He woke with a start when the door opened, then took the cold cloth gratefully from his brother. Sam stared at Cas as he slept fitfully, low groans escaping every so often. Sam put his hand on Dean’s shoulder, indicating to the chair.

“You’ve been in here for three nights now. Do you want me to take a turn? You can sleep in your own bed for once.”

It was tempting. Dean wasn’t sure his memory foam even remembered him anymore. But one glance at Cas’ face and he shook his head.

“Nah, dude. I’m staying.”

Sam squeezed his shoulder, told Dean to let him know if he changed his mind. On his way out the door, he stopped and turned. Dean could feel Sam staring at him, could see his brother’s contemplative expression from his peripheral vision. It meant something, the way Sam was looking at him, but Dean didn’t have enough mental bandwidth to figure it out.

When the door closed and they were alone in the dark again, Dean grabbed Cas’ hand.

“Sammy would’ve just complained about his back if he tried to sleep in this chair,” he told Cas’ sleeping form.

Cas didn’t stir, and Dean settled in for the night.

 

xXxXx

 

Eventually, to everyone’s relief, Cas begins to heal.

He pads around the bunker aimlessly in his bathrobe. He’s got a beard the same way he did when Dean found him by the riverside several lifetimes ago, with Benny at his side and Leviathans closing in on them.

Cas catches Dean staring one day and he asks about it. Dean shakes his head, but he knows Cas won’t leave it.

Dean scratches his own jaw. “Your beard, man. It’s like Purgatory.”

Cas’ eyes widen and he runs a hand down his face, like he hadn’t even considered it.

“It’s a good look for you,” Dean says, attempting to cover the moment of… what? Vulnerability? All he said was that Cas looks like he did when they were in Purgatory.

But there’s a heaviness that’s fallen over them. Cas stares at Dean. “I hadn’t realized,” he says simply, by way of explanation.

Dean doesn’t know what to say, just offers to make Cas a BLT and Cas takes him up on it, easing the tension for the moment.

The next day, Cas’ beard is gone, replaced by the stubble Jimmy’s vessel had during Cas’ angel days.

Dean doesn’t know why he’s relieved.

 

xXxXx

 

One day over breakfast, Cas declares, “I want to get a job.”

“Something higher class than Gas ‘n Sip this time, eh?” Dean says, then immediately regrets it. Cas glowers at Dean with a cross between anger and hurt.

Sam saves the moment by interjecting, “Cas, uh, I don’t think you’re well enough for that yet.”

Cas turns his gaze to Sam and he’s frustrated now, his voice raised as he says, “I want to be useful again.”

Sam puts down his coffee and reaches across the table to put his hand over Cas’.

“You don’t have to be useful. You’re our friend. We want you here now just as much as we always have.”

Dean is enormously thankful that Sam’s better with emotions. And words.

Cas’ face crumbles. “I want to be useful,” he repeats quietly.

Dean seems to find his voice again. “You’re probably going a bit stir crazy,” he says, and when Cas turns to look at him now, he doesn’t seem angry, just meek, defeated. Dean wants to permanently wipe that expression off his face.

“Why don’t we find you a hobby? Something to do, something to keep you busy until you can work. If that’s still what you want to do.” The notion of Cas working leaves a sour taste in his mouth, images from Cas’ first round as a human making Dean feel hollow.

Cas seems wary, but his interest is piqued. “Like what?”

Sam gives Cas a gentle smile, pouring Cas another cup of coffee as he says, “We’ll take you out to some craft stores, try to find knitting classes or something. Maybe we can get you a garden.”

Dean snorts. “There ain’t sunlight in the bunker, Sammy.”

Sam shoots him a death glare. “Well, there is outside.”

Dean shakes his head but says nothing, and the three of them arrange to go into town the next day.

 

xXxXx

 

Cas decides to paint.

He saw the oil paints in Michael’s, a 24-color $5 starter kit. Sam buys them without a word, along with some other odds and ends that Cas had picked up, including embroidery floss and an instruction book for friendship bracelets. “Charlie mentioned them to me and I want to try it,” Cas says firmly in response to Dean’s horrified stare.

But this is for Cas. Cas can do anything he wants with his time.

At first, Cas’ paintings are simple, average. He paints still lifes, apples and pears and peaches. He paints a head of lettuce, once, and Sam’s so fond of it that Cas gives it to him. 

Then he moves on to animals.

It’s around that time that Cas and Sam come home one day with a guinea pig. Dean’s furious—they don’t need a fucking rodent in the bunker—but Cas is so happy with the thing and Sam gives Dean such a wide variety of bitch faces that he eventually shuts up and gives in. Admittedly, the way Cas cares about it is kind of heart-warming. He feeds it lettuce and spinach and carrots. Dean will never ever say aloud that the way it chews is actually pretty cute.

He comes in one day when Cas is cleaning its cage, which mostly just looks like a litter box.

“I never asked you,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s its name?”

“Caramel,” Cas informs him without looking up.

“Oh, like those Caramel Cream bullseyes that Sam got you hooked on?” He studies the creature, which is currently sitting on Cas’ bed, nibbling on some hay. “I can see that. It, uh, _she_ kind of looks like one of those.”

Cas just nods, still busy with cleaning the cage, and after surveying for another few seconds, Dean wanders out.

Cas paints Caramel at least two dozen different times—in different lighting, with different backgrounds. He takes her outside once, lets her eat the grass until she’s pudgy and content, and he paints her surrounded by green.

He shows that painting to Dean and while Dean does marvel at it, he’s confused. Cas rarely makes an effort to show Dean his paintings. Dean normally just sort of finds them scattered around the bunker.

He doesn’t express his bewilderment, but Cas notices it and he explains, “The green reminded me of your eyes.”

Dean can only stare at him. Cas says it like it’s the most simple and self-explanatory statement, like it makes perfect sense for part of his painting to make him think of Dean’s eyes. Cas glances at Dean after several beats of silence, and he gets a look on his face that Dean can’t place. Something like fondness and wistfulness. It does funny things in Dean’s ribcage.

 

xXxXx

 

Cas’ skills slowly improve and eventually, he moves on to people.

Sam shows Cas a picture of him and Dean when they were young, and Cas breaks into a huge grin.

“Can I paint you?” he asks, cradling the photo with care, avoiding getting fingerprints on it.

Sam’s smile is a mirror of Cas’. “Yeah, Cas. That would be awesome.”

Cas shows both of them when he finishes, handing the reference photo back to Sam. Sam’s face is alight with wonder.

“Cas, this is really good,” he breathes, reaching for the canvas. Cas places it in his hands, but he’s looking at Dean.

Dean takes it in. He can see the brushstrokes, the globs of paint that have been smoothed over. Cas’ style isn’t clean and detailed, it’s a bit messy, but it’s still undeniably the younger versions of himself and Sam, and he swallows. He wonders how long Cas stared at their youthful faces, how many hours he spent cataloging the details in order to get it just right. It looks like them, looks like their childhood, and how the hell Cas was able to capture that in a painting, Dean will never understand.

“This is great, Cas,” he says quietly.

Cas smiles, a soft smile just for Dean. “It’s for you,” he says to both of them. Sam pulls Cas into a bear hug. When Sam lets him go, Cas reaches for Dean, and Dean obliges without thinking. He holds Cas for just a second too long because it occurs to him that it’s the most physical contact they’ve had since Cas fell. He’s too emotional by the time he pulls away, and he clears his throat and announces that he’s antsy and he’s going on a late night run.

Sam gives him that same knowing look, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

xXxXx

 

Cas is still on the mend. He has a wet rattling cough that’s settled into his chest, but he’s up and about more than he was, and Dean’s happy to see Cas walking around the bunker. He mentions that he wants to work, to do something, a few more times. But each time they gently remind him that he isn’t 100% back to normal yet, and he concedes, disappointed. Dean’s heart breaks every time he remembers the conversation they had the first time, with Cas asserting that he wanted to be useful. He wants to tell Cas that he doesn’t need to do anything, to be anything, that they want him how he is, even if he’s human and sick and grumpy. But he doesn’t have the words, so he stays quiet.

That’s when Cas starts painting on himself. 

Dean comes into Cas’ room one night to find Cas cross-legged on his bed, a piece of wax paper with gobs of paint next to him and brushes laid out neatly in front of him. His brow is furrowed with concentration, and he’s moving a brush slowly across his forearm, the tender skin on the inside of his wrist. 

Dean freezes, forgetting for a moment about the bowl of minestrone soup in his hands and then cursing as some of it sloshes over the side.

Cas looks up, half his mouth tipping up in a smile. He puts the dirty brush down on his nightstand, carefully postured so the bristles don’t touch the wood.

“Is that for me?” he says, gesturing to the soup, and Dean enters Cas’ bedroom. 

“Yeah. It’s long past dinner time, figured I’d come check on you.” He hands the warm bowl down to Cas and Cas thanks him, genuine and heartfelt. He slurps at a few spoonfuls of it and something about it makes Dean ache.

He points to Cas’ arm and asks, “What’re you painting?”

Cas cradles the bowl of soup in between his crossed legs as he raises his arm for Dean to examine. Dean wraps his fingers around Cas’ wrist without thinking and he gazes down at the creation on Cas’ skin. It’s flowers, all sorts of them—sunflowers and azaleas and roses and dandelions (which he always insists are gorgeous, insists to Dean and Sam that the notion of something being a “weed” is entirely a human one, and that all flowers are beautiful).

Dean’s momentarily stunned, awed by the garden that weaves its way up Cas’ arm. Cas is watching him curiously, and Dean gets himself together enough to say, “Looks good, Cas.” He stares for another minute, and then the next question bubbles forth.

“Why on yourself?” Cas tilts his head and Dean hurries to clarify, “Why not on a canvas? If it’s on you, it’ll wash off.” 

Cas pulls his arm back from Dean’s grasp (and Dean doesn’t want to think about why that pulls at something in his chest, so he doesn’t) and he looks down at his creation.

“I want it on me because it makes me feel beautiful.”

It’s a statement that makes Dean want to cry, so naturally, his knee-jerk reaction is to crack a joke, _Aw, Cas, you’re already a pretty princess,_ but he holds his tongue.

“Flowers are incredible. God gave them to us because He wanted to give us beauty. They have purpose, all beings have purpose, but... they are unlike humans, unlike animals. They don't have to fight for their lives, they don't kill. They grow towards the sun. Their entire existence is gentle, is beautiful.” Cas stares down at his arm. “I want to remind myself that it’s okay for me to just exist gently, too.”

Dean sinks down on the bed next to Cas, careful not to jostle Cas’ soup or the wax paper with all of the paint on it. “That’s… that’s good, Cas. And you’re right,” he says, feeling dumb, inelegant with too many words flooding forward and none of them able to come out.

Cas gives him a small smile, a tender thing, the bud of a flower that hasn’t yet bloomed, hasn’t had the proper nourishment, but it’ll get there.

“You think?” he asks, like he genuinely wants Dean’s opinion.

Dean nods, can’t help the way he gets caught in Cas’ eyes for a second before he shakes himself and replies, “Yeah. I do.” He doesn’t know what possesses him but he wraps his fingers around Cas’ wrist again, careful not to smear the paint, thumb touching his middle finger. “I do.”

 

xXxXx

 

Dean and Sam decide to go through and systematically reorganize the bunker library, and it’s a process that takes a full week. Cas has been moving around even more now, so he helps when he’s able. Dean has the nagging suspicion that Cas is still struggling with the idea that he has to be useful. It’s weird to see Castiel, Ex-Angel of the Lord, Seraph and warrior, deferring to Sam for the organization of the books. 

“Where do you want the djinn books, Sam?” he mutters, holding a decent-sized stack in his arms.

“On the other side of the table. Thanks, Cas.”

It’s also strange to see Cas struggle to carry a handful of books. “You got it?” Dean asks, and Cas immediately snaps, “Yes, I’m fine,” and drops the books harder than what’s strictly necessary.

Sam flinches and straightens from where he’s been bent over the shelf, and they both stare at Cas. Cas sighs heavily and says, “Sorry. I miss being strong. My body feels weak and incapable.”

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean replies, and Sam’s got those worried crinkles on his forehead.

Sam says, “Well, _my_ human strength is pretty depleted right now, too. I can reheat some of the turkey we had for dinner yesterday and bring it in here for a quick break. That sound good?" 

Dean’s “yes” is immediate and although Cas is still trying to navigate the nuances of having an appetite, he does add a quiet, “yes, please,” a moment later. Sam pats Cas’ shoulder on his way out, and Dean’s worried Cas will respond harshly—he’s made it abundantly clear that he does not want the brothers’ pity—but to Dean’s surprise, Cas mumbles, “Thank you, Sam,” and his shoulders seems to lose some tension, bleeding out into Sam’s hand.

When Sam is gone, Cas lowers himself onto the couch, his remaining strength fading quickly. Dean hesitates for a second, then sits beside Cas on the other end of the couch. They’re both silent for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Dean decides to man up and say something. After all, Sam can’t be the only one responsible for the emotional conversations.

“Look, uh,” he starts awkwardly, and he feels Cas’ gaze land on him like a physical weight. “I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through. I mean, I gained some strength with the Mark,” and the memory of it is still fresh, still an open sore, so he doesn’t dwell on it. “When the Mark disappeared, I was back to being just me. But in that case, it was a very good thing, and it wasn’t like I was losing who I’d been for the past thousand years, so…” Dean trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s horrible at this. He turns to face Cas, who looks confused, is tilting his head in the way he always used to do, but is still patient in the face of Dean floundering trying to find the right thing to say. It seems like Cas has an endless supply of patience for Dean, and Dean’s not sure he deserves it.

“I don’t really get it. I won’t pretend I do. I can only imagine how frustrating it is. And I know you don’t want pity, and I swear it’s not that. Just,” Dean stops, tries to regain his footing. “I hope you know that me and Sam, we know you’re adjusting. We don’t expect you to be Superman. These things take time.”

Cas bites his lip. Dean feels foolish, but he finishes, “We’ve got your back, man. However long it takes.”

Cas folds his hands, looks down at his lap. He doesn’t say anything for a while and Dean feels his palms break out in a sweat, because what if he said the wrong thing?

Eventually, though, Cas says, “I appreciate all that you and Sam have done for me. I’m thankful for your support.” 

It’s not the response Dean’s expecting. When Cas fell again, it was because he saved the goddamn world. As far as Dean’s concerned, there’s always been a place for Cas in the bunker, if he wanted it. But especially now, especially with him being human again and recovering from being sick. Really, if Dean had his way, Cas would stay and be a permanent fixture in the bunker. He hates that Cas has fallen, hates that Cas had to give so much of himself to save this doomed planet, but he’s selfishly glad that Cas can’t just evaporate into thin air any time he wants. He knows that Cas will want independence once he’s up to full speed again, and that may eventually mean moving out, getting his own place and a job, maybe settling down with someone. If he’s going to be stuck as a human, he may as well experience the good parts of humanity, too. It’s something Cas more than deserves, and it’s simultaneously something Dean doesn’t like to dwell on too much.

Point is, he’s glad Cas is here. He always has been. Taking care of Cas while he’s been getting back on his feet hasn’t been a burden or a hardship. Hell, he and Sammy have to take care of each other so often, what with job-related injuries and all, that nursing Cas back to health isn’t something that’s even out of the ordinary for them.

It seems sort of unthinkable for Cas to thank them, after everything they’ve been through.

“You don’t… Cas, buddy. You don’t have to thank us. It’s what we’d do anyway. You’re family.”

Cas’ face melts into an expression Dean can’t begin to identify, something disbelieving and amazed and full of childlike wonder. Dean doesn’t understand how Cas could possibly not know that.

“Family,” Cas says, like he’s trying to wrap his mind around it.

“Yeah, of course, Cas.”

Cas stares at Dean, really stares until Dean’s pulse is a hammer, a drum beat in his ears, until he wants to look away because the scrutiny feels like it’s too much. But Cas studies him, and Dean lets himself be studied, wants Cas to know that this is the absolute truth.

“Dean, is it okay if I paint on you sometime?”

Dean’s brain sort of short circuits with the notion of Cas’ hands on his skin. “Uh, why?”

Cas deflates with Dean’s response, becoming sheepish and shy. “I just, I wanted…”

“Yeah, man. Yeah. You can paint on me.” Dean tries to imagine it, tries to picture what Cas would possibly want to put on his skin.

That’s when Sam comes back with the turkey, one plate in each hand and one in the crook of his arm. He enters, looks back and forth between Dean and Cas and clears his throat, says pointedly, “I brought food!”

Cas turns away first, reaching for the plate of turkey gratefully. “Thank you, Sam,” he says, taking several forkfuls of it at once.

Dean grins watching Cas stuff his cheeks, and Sam joins them on the couch. They eat their dinner and unwind a little, and by the end, Cas seems replenished, he’s got some of his energy back. There’s a glow in his cheeks that Dean hasn’t seen in a while, and Sam seems to notice it too—he smiles when Cas is turned away.

Sam claps his hands together, puts his plate down on the table. “All right, guys. Ready?”

Cas replies, “ready,” without hesitation, and it makes Dean smile, makes him feel utter relief. It’s not a feeling he has often, so he enjoys it while he can.

 

xXxXx

 

Dean forgets about Cas’ request for a little while because soon after that, they’re hit with a case. Dean and Sam both try to convince Cas that he’s not quite ready to come along yet, but Cas digs his heels in and they realize there’s no hope in convincing him to stay.

It’s a demon who takes possession of a little girl, and by the time they get to her, she’s already killed three kids, two of whom are toddlers, in their terrible twos. Investigating the crime scenes, seeing the photos of the blood everywhere, the way the kids were slain—it hits them hard. Dean definitely sees Sam tearing up at one point.

For Cas, the grief translates into anger, determination to find the demon girl come hell or high water. “We can’t let another child die,” he growls, sheets of paper and photographs spread out around him on the hotel bed, pressing his fingers into his temples.

When they finally break into the house where the girl is attacking her next victim, Cas is insistent that they be as careful as they can in getting the demon out of her. Sam rushes the boy to the hospital—CJ, who just turned three last week. He lost a lot of blood, too, and Dean’s angry with the demon, this horrible thing who’s twisting a little girl’s face into something vicious, vengeful and evil like a child would never be.

“Don’t hurt her,” Cas screams, but as Dean turns his back, the girl pins Cas to the wall with ease, flicking her gaze across the room carelessly. She giggles, a completely jarring sound because it sounds like a child, but it sounds _wrong_.

“Now, where were we?” she says, turning her attention back to Dean. But Dean has been mumbling Latin under his breath, unbroken except for when he shouted Cas’ name as he was propelled backward. He finishes the incantation before the demon can realize what’s happening, and the demon is violent leaving her body, black smoke pluming rapidly to the ceiling. The girl collapses on the spot, blood tricking from the corner of her mouth. Dean hears the thud of Cas falling down the wall, and Dean’s first instinct is to check on him, but Cas croaks, “Dean, the girl.”

Dean obeys and rushes over to her, scooping her in his arms. “Hey, sweetheart,” he coos. “Can you hear me?”

The girl—the real girl, whose name is Maisie—blinks up at him, coughs up more blood. She looks petrified, her whole body tense with pain.

“Who are you? Where am I?” she asks, her voice small and frail.

Cas limps over, wheezing, and he motions for Dean to hand Maisie to him. Dean does so carefully, trying to move her limbs as little as possible. Cas holds her like she’ll break, brushing sweaty tendrils of hair from her face.

“Maisie, it’s okay. You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

Maisie lets out a small whimper, clutching at Cas’ shirt, and he makes soft _shhh_ noises. “We’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Too quiet for Dean to hear, Maisie mouths, “Thank you,” then her eyes roll back in her head and she’s gone.

It’s the first time Dean sees Cas cry.

Sam pulls back up and bursts through the door with his gun out. When he comes upon the scene, he glances inquiringly at Dean, who just shakes his head.

“Cas,” Dean says gently, “Cas, why don’t you let me handle the police.” They’re sure to be on their way by now. “You can go with Sam and check in on CJ at the hospital. Does that sound okay?”

There are tears rolling down Cas’ nose, mingling with the girl’s dried blood and he’s crying hard, gasping for air. Dean looks at Sam and mouths “CJ?” and Sam nods, telling Dean wordlessly that CJ will make it.

“Cas,” Dean steps forward slowly, carefully, and Cas turns and thrusts the girl into Dean’s arms. He claps a hand over his mouth and uses his other to hold up a finger, indicate for Sam to give him a minute to get himself together.

Sam tells them, “I’ll be in the car,” and exits with a silent instruction in his eyes that Dean can’t translate.

Dean gently lays Maisie on the couch, turns to face Cas. He doesn’t have a clue how to begin comforting his friend. Even though he and Sam have been around the block with difficult cases, have witnessed deaths of children before, this particular case had been tough even for them to stomach. This is Cas’ first time on the road with them, first time trying to wrangle human emotions in the face of a hunt, and Dean doesn’t know what he can possibly do to soothe Cas’ aching soul.

“Cas,” he whispers, and Cas looks up, snot dripping out of his nose, eyes red and puffy, tear tracks all down his cheeks. Dean opens his arms. “C’mere.”

Cas barrels into him and buries his face in Dean’s shoulder, crying, his whole body shaking with the force of his grief. “We should’ve saved her,” he sobs, a broken sound Dean never wants to hear again as long as he lives. 

Dean holds tight, clings back, reminds Cas, “We saved the boy. We saved CJ.” Cas looks up at him, eyes wide. Dean doesn’t think before he cups Cas’ face, slick with tears, brushes his thumb across Cas’ cheekbone and says, “He’s gonna be okay. We got to him in time. Do you want to go see him?”

Cas gulps and nods. It occurs to Dean that his palm is still pressed to Cas’ cheek, and Cas threads their fingers together, holding Dean’s hand in place. Dean’s having a hard time breathing now too, Cas’ grief and vulnerability is doing a number on him, but he needs to be strong for Cas. He lets Cas hold his hand against his face for a minute while Cas stares like Dean has all of the answers.

Cas eventually lets go of Dean’s hand, puts a foot of space between them and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, the way Sammy used to when he was a kid. Cas makes for the door slowly, then turns to look at Dean over his shoulder and rasps, “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean’s voice is sort of on the fritz, but he replies, “Anytime, Cas.” 

Dean hears the Impala rumble to a start and pull away, and it’s only a minute after that the cops pull up, lights flashing. Dean scrubs a hand down his face, fighting for his own composure. In the end, he decides it’s a moot point. He convinces himself that he’s not bothering to put on an act because it will make him look less guilty if he’s shaken up. The truth of the matter is, he doesn’t have the strength left to do it.

 

xXxXx

 

It’s six a.m. when Sam comes to grab Dean from the police station, where he’d been interviewed at least six times about how he found Maisie. The police eventually decide to let him go, they figure he’s not a suspect. Just as Sam’s pulling away, Dean sees Maisie’s parents pull in to the parking lot, and he has to look away. He can’t stomach it.

He and Sam don’t speak, don’t even know what to say. Dean just asks, “Cas with CJ at the hospital?” Sam nods grimly.

Upon arrival, Sam tells Dean the room CJ is in and goes to the cafeteria to grab them all coffee. Dean raps on the door with his knuckles and Cas doesn’t stir, so he enters slowly.

“Hey,” he says, approaching CJ’s bedside, where Cas has pulled up a chair and is holding CJ’s hand. Dean drags a second chair over and takes in the scene. CJ looks too small for the hospital bed, color drained from his face. But he’s breathing, shallow little breaths, and both Dean and Cas watch the rise and fall of his chest.

“Has the doctor come in?”

Cas licks his lips—he probably hasn’t spoken in hours. “His condition is stable. They’re calling his family as we speak.”

Dean scoots his chair a bit closer to Cas and they sit together, not speaking, watching CJ breathe.

“We got there in time. At least we were able to save him,” Dean says, and he has a feeling that Cas is biting back words, self reproach, but he mumbles, “Yes.”

Dean doesn’t have any sense for how much time passes before CJ’s parents are ushered in, in tears at the sight of their baby boy. They’re taken aback at the sight of the two men by his bedside.

“Who are you?” the father asks, and Dean is about to chime in, to shoulder this one, but Cas replies, “We found your son.”

The mother cries and flings herself into Cas’ arms. Cas isn’t prepared for it, but he gets his arms around her in return, even rubs her back soothingly as she weeps on his shoulder and says “Thank you” a hundred times. Eventually, the husband comes over, pries his wife’s arms off Cas, and Cas pats her back one more time and tells her they were happy to help. They slip out of the room as the doctor starts filling CJ’s parents in on their son’s condition.

They meet Sam in the lobby and Dean and Cas share a cup of coffee. The hour drive back to the hotel is completely silent, unbroken by music. Sam’s knuckles are white, stretched tight over bone where he grips the wheel. When they get back to the hotel room, they pile into bed and sleep for twelve hours.

 

xXxXx

 

Back at the bunker, the somber mood looms for several days. Sam goes for runs, tears through the books that’ve been on his nightstand for a few months. Dean does maintenance on Baby that he’s intended to do for a while now.

Cas stays in his room, sometimes reading, but mostly sleeping. Dean chalks it up to exhaustion and the fact that Cas hasn’t totally regained strength yet. But after a few days, Dean starts to get worried. Cas hasn’t even been painting.

After four days, he decides enough is enough and he makes his way to Cas’ room. He knocks and waits for a muffled, “Enter” before he opens the door. He pokes his head in but still stands in the threshold. Cas has a book in his hands, but his eyes are unfocused, glazed over.

“Hey, Cas. Can I come in?”

Cas looks up, closes his book and puts it down on the floor. He replies, “Yes, Dean,” and Dean takes a breath, walks in and closes the door behind him. Cas pats the bed next to him, and Dean takes a seat. He takes in the sight of Cas’ unkempt hair, the extra lines beneath his eyes. His demeanor is subdued, like he’s mourning. Like he’s still blaming himself.

“I’d ask how you’re doing, but it seems like it’s a stupid question.”

At least it makes Cas snort. “You are very observant.”

Dean tucks one leg up on the bed and even though he’d been pacing outside Cas’ room for the better part of a day now, he still feels like anything he could say to assuage his friend is entirely inadequate.

Then, Dean sees the corner of a canvas sticking out from beneath Cas’ bed, and it sparks an idea. “Hey, do you still want to paint me?” Cas looks up, confused. “On me,” Dean clarifies, and he feels like his cheeks might be burning but he fervently ignores it. “You said you wanted to paint on me.”

Cas mulls it over, doing something weird with his jaw. “Would that be all right?” he asks, turning his face toward Dean. Dean doesn’t know if Sam has been teaching Cas how to do puppy eyes (which is totally something Sammy would do), or if Cas is just actually still that heartbroken and beaten down. Either way, the last of Dean’s reluctance dissipates.

“Yeah, buddy, whatever you want. Are you gonna give me a full sleeve?” Dean asks, hoping his sarcasm can mask the nerves that are suddenly accumulating in the pit of his stomach. Cas reaches into a drawer and pulls out all his paints. He examines Dean like Dean is a canvas, trying to decide where to begin, and Dean’s almost relieved that, for a moment, it appears Cas can’t really see him. But then, Cas’ eyes catch somewhere near Dean’s shoulder, and it seems like he remembers that he’s choosing a spot to paint on Dean, because his eyes are back on Dean’s face and he’s shy, somewhere in the ballpark of bashful. 

“Not a full, um, ‘sleeve,’” Cas replies, busying himself with pouring paint on a sheet of wax paper. “Just the top of your arm, near your shoulder.”

Dean’s wearing a tee shirt with sleeves that cover the area Cas has in mind, so Dean moves to just roll it up, but Cas stops him. Cas’ ears are definitely more pink than normal when he says, “It may just be easier to take it off, if that’s something you’re comfortable with.” 

Dean wrangles the cotton off over his head before he can think too much about it. Cas only has a few colors on his paper, mostly red and white, with a small glob of purple and blue on the corner. Cas dabs a brush into the paint and tests it on the back of his hand.

“My one condition,” he says, and Dean rolls his eyes, interrupts, “ _Your_ condition? I’m the one being painted on!”

Cas gazes at him evenly, unperturbed. “My one condition is that you don’t look until I’m done.”

Cas means business, Dean realizes, and he eventually nods. Cas wraps his fingers around the crook of Dean’s elbow, holding his arm away from his body. He looks curiously up at Dean, analyzing. “You could close your eyes,” he says, and he’s quiet, his words barely distinguishable, “or you could just look away. Your choice.”

The shrug is evident in his voice. Dean feels too weird about closing his eyes, so he just turns his face so that it’s angled away from where Cas will be working on his arm. Cas waits a moment and when he’s satisfied that Dean can’t see what he’s going to paint, he begins.

The brush moving on his skin is ticklish more than anything else, but after a minute or two, it just fades into all of the other physical sensations—the sound of their breath, unlabored, easy; the gentle hum of the bunker heater; the sound of the TV four rooms over, where Sam fell asleep listening to some Discovery Channel documentary.

Dean’s okay with the fact that they’re not speaking. It doesn’t feel tense or uneasy. The whole point of this was to get Cas out of his own head. Even if he’s still blaming himself for those kids’ deaths while he’s painting a Monet on Dean’s arm, at least he’s channeling his self-hatred into something healthy. (Not that Dean is the king of healthy coping strategies. Maybe that’s why this has been eating at him—he wants Cas to turn out better than he did as far as being able to digest human emotions in a way that won’t tear him to shreds.)

So he’s caught off guard when Cas begins to speak. 

“You know that I’m blaming myself,” he says, his breath fanning across Dean’s collarbone. It’s not really a question, but Dean nods anyway.

“Obviously, I have known for months now that I’ve lost my angelic abilities. Permanently, this time.” Cas swaps a small flat brush for one that’s even smaller with hardly any bristles.

“I think what I’m mourning the most isn’t the power that accompanied by angelic state—I am not as cocky now as I once was,” he says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. Dean turns his head and, sure enough, the corners of Cas’ lips are turned up, just a little. The relief Dean feels is definitely disproportional.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a huff, “you don’t have that stick up your ass anymore.”

Cas purses his lips. “Maybe you’re right,” he admits, and man, it is so good to be engaging in sarcastic banter with Cas. He’s missed this.

Cas sobers and continues. “What I miss is being able to swoop in and save the day. I used to do it sometimes, but I didn’t fully appreciate it then. I never knew what it was to be three minutes too late."

Dean’s been trying to keep his eyes focused on the wall, to obey Cas’ singular instruction, but he slowly turns back to Cas. Cas shelters his masterpiece from Dean’s sight by cupping a hand over it. But Dean’s gaze isn’t on his own shoulder, it’s on Cas’ face. “’m not peeking,” he mutters, and after they stare at each other for a minute, Cas seems to believe Dean. He turns his attention back to Dean’s arm.

“I’m trying to remind myself of the things I _was_ able to do as an angel, rather than lamenting my current shortcomings while I’m still ‘learning the ropes’ of being human.”

In a different time, Dean would’ve joked that Cas’ ego didn’t need any help, but right now, it seems like Cas could actually use the reassurance that he’s made a difference in this pathetic world.

“I mean, dude, you’ve saved mine and Sammy’s asses more times than I can count. You’re the reason the world still exists.”

Cas is shaking his head before Dean finishes speaking. “I also let you and Sam down, many times. And _we_ are the reason the world still exists. I could not have done it on my own.” 

“You made the biggest sacrifice out of all of us,” Dean counters. 

Cas meets Dean’s eyes again. “You and Sam, your entire lives have been one great sacrifice.” Dean could keep arguing on this one but Cas cuts him off, saying, “They are not comparable, but you have given as much as I have.” He’s stubborn, his fingers digging into the crease of Dean’s elbow, and Dean realizes it’s not a battle he’s going to win.

He tunes back in to the feeling of the paint against his skin. Cas had begun at the top of his arm, on the socket of his shoulder (the one Sam’s had to relocate at least ten separate times), and Cas sort of spread wide to either side of Dean’s arm as he moved down. Now it seems like his brush is slowing down, and he’s about halfway down Dean’s arm.

Dean could easily sneak a glimpse of Cas’ painting but he chooses to focus on Cas’ face instead—the way his eyes are narrow slits, hyper focused on what he’s doing, the way he’s sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, just a little bit. It’s incredibly endearing, and Dean can’t help the warmth that seeps through his gut.

Cas stops, rolling the paintbrush between his fingers and studying his work. Then, he pulls back, finally returns Dean’s gaze. “This is my favorite thing I did as an angel.”

It takes Dean a second to realize that Cas is talking about his painting on Dean’s arm. He glances down and his breath stutters, catches, sticks in his throat. Cas painted the handprint, _his_ handprint, the scar that was once a brand on Dean’s skin. Dean doesn’t have a clue when that mark got lost, somewhere along the way, but he remembers that for a while, he felt weird without it. It had always made him feel closer to Cas.

Cas’ painting skills have improved, really improved, because it looks precisely like it did, like it’s 3D and elevated from his skin. But this time, Cas added a little more color, an amazing turquoise and lilac color coating the outside edges.

It occurs to Dean that Cas is waiting for a response, but Dean hardly knows what to say. His brain slowly catches up to the statement Cas had made.

“Wait, I was your favorite thing you did?”

“Saving you,” Cas corrects. “It was the hardest thing I did. It is unheard of for an angel to go on a rescue mission to Hell and emerge.”

“So it was your greatest accomplishment, right?”

“Yes, but that’s not why it’s my favorite.”

Dean peels his eyes away from the painting, focuses on Cas. “Well, it was the hardest thing you ever did." 

“Yes, but the reason why I consider it to be the best thing I ever did, in all my years and years alive, is because I met you.”

Dean’s brain grinds to a halt. “What?”

Cas smiles at him, a small smile, private and adoring, and he says, “Do you know why my hand burned you? You don’t remember when I came for you, correct?” Dean shakes his head. “Anyone who tried to touch you when you were down there, they were not gentle, they were not loving.”

Dean snorts, “Yeah, dude, it was Hell.”

Cas places the brush down, moves the entire sheet of wax paper off the bed. “You didn’t recognize my intentions, didn’t recognize that my touch was different, and you fought me off. I was worried your whole body was going to be burned. My angelic touch was too much for your soul, because you had been down there for so long, such a thing was too foreign."

Dean’s mouth is suddenly dry. He and Cas have talked about Hell, but not like this. “What happened?” 

“I told you who I was, why I was there, over and over. And eventually, you stopped thrashing. You let me hold you, grip you to drag you out.” Tenderly, Cas traces the line of the handprint he recreated on Dean’s arm, and it gives Dean goosebumps. 

“When I realized my handprint may be burning your skin, I tried to rearrange my grasp on you. But you clung to me. You didn’t want me to let go.” Cas looks into Dean’s eyes and he lifts his shoulder in a shrug that’s anything but nonchalant. “So I didn’t.”

Dean has to clear his throat before he speaks, because he’s not sure what his voice will sound like if he doesn’t. “Why didn’t you tell me? I sort of thought it was your autograph on me, calling dibs or warding the other angels off or something.”

Cas gives Dean a wry smile. “Do you remember when we met, topside?” Dean does. He stabbed Cas in the chest.

“Okay, fair point.” Dean takes in the way Cas painted the old scar, how he gave so much attention to each detail. The mark has been gone for years by now, but Cas apparently can still see it in his mind’s eye with picture perfect clarity.

When Cas speaks, it’s barely above a whisper. “I miss it.”

Dean glances back up at Cas again, and eloquently repeats, “What?” 

Cas ducks his head, abashed. “You and I, we’ve been through so much. That was our first trial. That’s how we met.” He twists his hands together, anxious, embarrassed. “It made me feel connected to you.” 

Dean’s mouth is open and he’s staring, ogling, can’t really help it. The paint is nearly dry now, and he drapes his right hand across the intricate painting, careful. That’s when he realizes. 

“Wait, how were you holding me?”

Cas swallows. He raises up on his knees and crawls behind Dean. He hesitates for a moment and Dean can hear his breath, hear how it’s sped up, before Cas reaches around Dean and wraps his arms across Dean’s chest. His right hand covers his artwork.

“Like this.”

Dean hangs his head, stares at Cas’ arms. This is how Cas held Dean when Dean was a demon, when Cas came up behind him before Dean could do any real damage to Sam. This is how Cas tried to grasp Dean when they fought, when the Mark was taking over every one of Dean’s senses and instincts and he hurt Cas. The memory is still too much to bear, but Dean recalls that Cas had gripped him tight from behind, trying to get Dean to cease, to calm down. It hadn’t worked. Cas has held him like this before, he realizes as his pulse picks up.

Cas lets go, unwinds his arms and sits back on his heels. Dean takes a breath and turns to face him. Cas’ eyes flick back and forth between Dean’s face, Dean’s mouth, and the painting on Dean’s arm. He places his hand on Dean’s elbow, brushes it up Dean’s arm softly, carefully, then presses his hand to it. Dean can feel it, then. The physical scar may be gone, but Cas is the one who reknit his whole body from scratch, and he has a feeling that the brand ran deeper than just his skin. It tingles beneath the surface, sort of feels like Cas is reaching through him and holding onto muscle and bone.

“I can still feel it,” Dean says, unable to hide the surprise from his voice. Cas looks equally shocked, presses his hand more firmly against Dean’s arm and Dean just nods, breathing out through his nose. “Yeah. I can feel it.”

Cas lets go, draws his arm back slowly, and they’re left staring at each other, overwhelmed.

“Cas, why didn’t you tell me?” He's not sure what he's asking at this point, he just knows that it's critical, it's the most important thing.

Cas doesn’t say anything, shakes his head, mute. When Dean licks his lips, Cas’ eyes dart down to Dean’s mouth, tracking the movement.

When they start to move toward each other slowly, so slowly, it’s at the same time, in the same heartbeat.

Dean freezes when they’re inches apart, squeezes his eyes shut and whispers, “Be sure, Cas.”

Cas brushes his thumb across Dean’s eyelid and Dean takes the cue, opens his eyes again. Cas replies firmly, “I always have been.” And then he closes the space between them.

If Dean had known kissing Cas would feel like this, he would’ve done it ages ago. Then again, he reflects, maybe there’s a reason it took them so long. He feels like he’s _drowning_ , like he can’t catch his breath to save his life. There’s something tender and sweet spreading through him, his blood replaced by honey, and he can’t stop the way he reaches for Cas, the way he pulls them flush together. He’s helpless, overtaken by so much want and need.

Cas tips them easily on their sides, his hand sealing once more over his painting on Dean’s arm. Dean murmurs, “You’re going to ruin it, it’s going to smear.”

Cas ducks back in, licks at the seam of Dean’s mouth and says, “I don’t care.”

They kiss and kiss, kiss until they’re both gasping for air and still unable to pull apart from each other. Dean just relocates to the space behind Cas’ ear and Cas makes a sound Dean’s never heard from him before. He repeats whatever he just did with his tongue to hear Cas make the noise again, and when it works, Dean’s hips jerk forward, an impulse he can’t stifle. He momentarily panics that he’s moving too fast, that he crossed a boundary, but Cas moans and slides one hand across Dean’s bare chest, the other down to grab Dean’s ass and pull them closer together. 

They thrust against each other like that for a couple of minutes while Dean wrestles Cas’ shirt off. Being chest to chest, skin to skin, it makes Dean dizzy, completely overwrought with sensation, with being able to have this. When he brushes his fingers across one of Cas’ nipples, Cas gasps his name and Dean leans down to nip at Cas’ neck.

He rolls them until Cas is on top of him and he snakes his hands down to the waist of Cas’ jeans. He waits until Cas says, “Yes, Dean, please,” then he slides his hand beneath the elastic of Cas’ boxers and wraps his fingers around Cas’ dick. Cas groans, hips stuttering forward, then he's frantically working at the button of Dean’s jeans, fumbling and clumsy and desperate.

There’s no way they’ll be able to do anything besides this, Dean’s already so close and he knows it’s the same for Cas. They manage to pull their pants and boxers down far enough that they can line up their cocks, and then they grind against each other. Dean’s whole body feels like a damn furnace and Cas is holding onto Dean’s arm where the handprint was, where it is. Dean knows the paint must be smudging with all of the sweat and movement, and he can’t bring himself to care. Cas only lifts his hand from Dean’s arm to cup his face in both hands and seal their mouths together right before he loses his rhythm and he comes between them, crying out while Dean licks the sound from his mouth. 

Dean comes only thirty seconds later, holding onto Cas for dear life, their kisses turned sloppy by now. They pant together, trying to come back to themselves, Cas tucking his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean looks down at the mess between them and laughs—the paint is smeared everywhere, all over his arm, fingerprints across his chest. Cas glances up.

“You have paint on your face,” Cas informs him with a grin.

“I bet I do. Does it look sexy?”

“Yes,” Cas says, ignoring that Dean was joking. He presses a chaste kiss to Dean’s mouth and slides off him. He pillows his head on Dean’s chest, weaving one of his legs between Dean’s, and they breathe together. Dean presses his lips to the top of Cas’ head.

“You can paint on me whenever you want,” he mutters, and Cas smiles against his skin.

 

xXxXx

 

When they get up the following morning, they’re a complete mess, oil paint and dried come and sweat. Cas pushes Dean into the shower with a laugh and they wash each other off tenderly, taking their time. Cas drops to his knees and wraps his mouth around Dean’s cock, and Dean comes embarrassingly fast.

Sam doesn’t say anything when they wander into the kitchen together. He’s making a feast of a breakfast, sausage and hashbrowns and waffles. 

They sit at the table and Sam serves them before grabbing his own plate. “This is delicious,” Cas declares through a mouthful of sausage. “Thank you, Sam.”

“What’s the occasion?” Dean asks.

“Well, I went into Cas’ room to see if he wanted coffee, and saw that the sheets are covered in paint. I mean, _covered_. And then I went into your room,” he looks at his brother, “and your bed was still made.” Cas stops chewing, eyes growing wide. But Sam’s completely unruffled. 

“Figured you two finally stopped dancing around each other and got your act together.”

Dean holds up a forkful of hashbrowns and says, “Cheers to that.” Cas’ face returns to its normal color after a minute and he laughs self-consciously, a sound Dean’s missed so much.

Yeah, this is good.

 

xXxXx

 

After that, Dean becomes Cas’ favorite paint subject.

He paints just Dean’s eyes, startling green color that Cas insists is completely accurate. Dean’s pretty sure his eyes aren't actually that bright, but Cas swears by it. He’ll take Cas word for it.

He paints Dean’s freckles, smattered across his nose in a haphazard nonexistent pattern. Dean’s never taken much notice of his freckles, but Cas adores them.

He paints the long lines of Dean’s bare back, sinuous and lithe; he paints the shadows falling across his upper back from his shoulder blades. He paints the scar on Dean’s lower back from his run-in with a werewolf.

One time, he paints Dean and Caramel, the guinea pig just resting on Dean’s bare chest. Cas insisted on Dean sitting (well, really, lying down) for that one rather than taking a photograph on his phone. He wanted Dean to bond with Caramel. Admittedly, it kind of worked.

And he paints at least a dozen pictures of Dean’s arm, each one with a handprint. They’re all different, different angles and colors and lighting, but they always take Dean’s breath away.

He keeps each and every one of them.

 

 

 


End file.
